


We should just kiss like real people do

by Garotte8Goodnight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brock Rumlow also needs a hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Missing persons case, gratuitous birthday porn that grew a plot, more like, we should just bang, we should just kiss?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7376596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a press event for his first critically acclaimed showing a journalist dares to ask Steve about his subject; the stars brought to life in oil, acrylic and charcoal, bound up in the shape of a man.</p><p>"You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star" he tells her. He thinks someone said that once, it might have even been Nietzsche. </p><p>He doesn't tell her about the man he and his boyfriend, Brock, haven't spoken of in seven long years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We should just kiss like real people do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redux (sian22)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/gifts).



> Notes: For Sian, because nothing says happy birthday like "here, have some gay porn".  
> My favourite cover of the song that lends the title: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqoTV23SJnI

~*~

 _"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science" ~_  Albert Einstein, The World as I See It

_"A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light._ " ~ Leonardo da Vinci

~*~

\--

**Manhattan, New York, Late September**

\--

"Is the mic on?" Steve taps it experimentally where it's clipped to his collar, jerks his hand back when he gets a mechanical crackle and a whine of feedback for his efforts.

The noise is piercing, verging on painful where it cuts through the air, amplified by the multiple speakers placed around the conference room. Steve bites his lip as the sound tech guy who's been making the adjustments winces; 

"Please... Please, do not do that." 

"Sorry!" He whispers in response. 

Next to him Brock, the asshole, is creased up in laughter; bent over the conference table with his face hidden in his arms. Steve uses his particularly pointy elbows to jab his boyfriend in the side, that's one thing they're good for at least.

The journalists - all art magazine types with horn-rimmed spectacles and far too many garish sweaters - filter into the room slowly, and before he moves off the raised podium Brock presses a quick kiss to Steve's cheek. Normally he'd protest and shove him away playfully, complaints about his whiskery stubble dancing on the tip of his tongue, but with all of the eyes in the room fixed on him Steve has to force himself to let go of Brock's hand. 

Brock gets it though, he always gets it, presses a quick kiss to Steve's fingers before he slips away.

"I'm gonna be right in the front babe, keep your eyes on me remember." 

Steve gives his fingers a final squeeze before he lets him go. Watches him strut confidently in front of the audience - sparse though they may be - and take the centre seat in front of the raised table. He gives Steve a conspiratorial wink as he leans casually on one elbow,  jaw that could cut glass cupped in his palm as he slips two calloused fingers, far less dainty than Steve's own, between plump lips.

Steve takes a moment to appreciate how blatantly indecent Brock looks - even when he's doing something completely innocent - and has to fight down the pink that dusts his cheeks. 

It works though, because when the assistant waves at him from the side to indicate that they're starting Steve doesn't see the field of people with aesthetically bored looks on their faces, jotters and MacBooks at the ready.

He only has eyes for Brock; his rakish grin and bedroom eyes in the front row, as always. 

 

\--

 

The Junior Curator of the gallery speaks first, talks about the emergence of home grown talent and how excited they are to be exhibiting the work of young New York based artists. This is Steve's big break - five years out of his Master’s program and he's getting his own exhibition, and okay sure, it's not the Met or anything, but it's a start. 

He looks at the sea of faces who've turned up because of his work, to talk about the things that he has made with his own two hands, and feels the butterflies swirl in his stomach. 

Thankfully the questions when they come aren't too hard; nobody is much interested in Steve himself, just the themes behind the art, where he went to school, what he's done before in terms of exposure. Steve is good with that, thinks it's great even - those are things he's comfortable talking about. 

That's why it's unexpected, after he's just finished answering a question about his process - mixing media with mirror fragments, acrylic and charcoal - when he hears;

"Who's the subject?" 

The question takes Steve by surprise, a blonde woman sat in the second row, wire framed glasses and a cascade of multi-coloured scarves wrapped around her neck.

"Excuse me..?"

"The subject - in all of the works your figure is rendered with such emotion. I was just wondering who you drew inspiration from? Your partner? A past lover maybe?"

And Steve lets out a shaky breath, catches Brock's eyes where he's looking up at him from the front row; his gaze is all warm honey and he nods in encouragement.

Isn't that the million dollar question?

 

\--

 

It goes like this; thirty years ago there was a boy born in early March, with a little bit of the universe in his soul. The stars and the weight of worlds comes together, is forged into the shape of a child, and is sent out into the world.

Steve doesn't meet him until he's nineteen, in his second year of college, back when he was full of vitriol and attitude, and all sharp edges. The boy takes one look at him, calls him a punk with a bad attitude, and asks if he'd like to take a look at his telescope sometime. It's not even a euphemism.

Steve didn't meet him first of course, so maybe it doesn't really start there. 

Here's how it really starts; Brock meets James "Bucky" Barnes when he's fifteen and Bucky's fourteen, and by the time Brock is seventeen they're the Captain of the football team and the star Quarter Back respectively, and have been inseparable for the last two years. 

On Brock's seventeenth birthday Bucky kisses him beneath the bleachers after a game when everyone else has already left, and Brock thinks everything in the universe makes sense right in that moment.

When he's eighteen he goes to college an hour away on a football scholarship, Bucky joins him a year later to study astrophysics of all things.

 

 --

 

But Steve can't tell her that, cannot tell any of them about a boy with dark hair and eyes frosted blue like a winters sky, so he smiles blandly down at the journalist and says;

"You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star."

He thinks it might have been Nietzsche who said that - one of these overly pretentious hipster types is bound to know anyway, so he's sure he'll find out in a few days when Brock inevitably brings home a magazine with the write up. 

The woman raises a single perfectly manicured eyebrow, her biro held thoughtfully between her teeth as she gives him a considering look.

"So it was someone you used to know?"

Steve doesn't want to lie, so he nods and forces a smile; 

"Yes. Someone my partner and I were... Close to, in college."

She nods at him and notes something down, and he moves on to the next question. He regrets doing so when the man he chooses, dark hair and a frankly obscenely coloured tie, asks;

"Has he seen the collection? Does he know?"

And Steve has to shake his head, slightly aggrieved at the direction this has taken. He'd much rather get back on the topic of the materials used to create the series. He pushes his glasses a little further up his nose before he replies, resists the urge to run his hand through his hair.

"No, he uh... He disappeared seven years ago."

Steve bites his lip and looks back to Brock in the front row, he's no longer slouching in his seat and a slight furrow has settled between his brows. Steve wants to smooth it away with gentle finger tips. 

The thing is, Steve and Brock haven't talked about Bucky in almost seven years, and the last thing either of them were expecting was to talk about what happened in front of a bunch of art critics and hipster magazine interns.

Steve sighs and folds his arms, drops his chin into the little nest he's made, and looks down at where his audience appears a whole lot more interested than they did ten minutes ago. Apparently even the most hip of boredom aesthetics goes right out the window when there's actual drama to be heard. Figures. 

"My boyfriend's ex-partner and my best friend. He was an astrophysicist, and sometimes he seemed so out of place in the world it was like he just wasn't meant for this planet."

Numerous raised eyebrows, and a lot more hurried scribbling than followed previous answers. Brock is looking up at him with those gorgeous hazel eyes that remind Steve of walks in Central Park in fall, and he pauses for a moment to take in the sheer emotion painted across that handsome face. 

He feels his heart twinge in his chest, and he'd worry he was about to have a heart attack if not for the Doctor's reassurances that he'd finally outgrown the arrhythmia that had plagued his childhood. Because, that's the truth, isn't it?

Bucky was only ever Steve's best friend, not that you could ever describe James Barnes as 'only' anything, but he and Brock had been together for over six years. High School sweethearts, college sweethearts, hell, Steve had figured they'd get married someday.

But life had other plans, obviously. Or, Bucky certainly did anyway.

Steve sighs and nods back at the man with the gross tie when he finishes his scribbling and tips his pen to Steve as if hoping he'll continue. What the hell, it's been seven years, they have to talk about it sometime. 

Steve looks to Brock for support before he continues speaking, is relieved when he gets a pained smile and a gentle nod;

"He went to work one morning and just... didn't come home. We didn't actually realise until a day or so later -"

Steve has to choke off a laugh at the thought, or it might be a sob actually, he can't be sure right now. It's funny in a sort of ridiculously morbid way - the centre of both their worlds had been missing for over twenty-four hours and neither of them had even noticed.

The man with the awful tie has his mouth open a little askance as he blurts out;

"You guys didn't even notice?"

Steve doesn't blame him really, it does sound rather awful when you put it like that. He shifts awkwardly and shrugs half-heartedly.

"Well, I guess Brock figured Bucky was with me, and I assumed he was with him. I showed up at their place the next day for movie night, and Brock said he hadn't seen him since the day before."

A number of the audience now look suitably stricken, Brock included. The lump that seems to have suddenly appeared in Steve's throat makes it hard to continue.

"We were going to put out a missing persons search after we called all of our other friends that night, but... The next day we each got a letter in the mail." 

Steve really does want to laugh now, all of these people who are supposed to be asking questions about his art are sat on the edge of their seats to hear him tell a story, and Steve wasn't a creative writing student for a reason - mostly because his life has been quite boring and unremarkable. 

He figures if there was one remarkable thing in his whole life, however, it was definitely James Buchanan Barnes.

He looks out at the eager faces, and figures he'll give them what they want;

"They were postmarked some ass end of Nowheresville a couple of hours west. Apparently he got to the bus station to get the bus to work, and bought a ticket elsewhere instead."

The woman who had first asked looks like she might now regret prying, and Steve wishes for a moment his emotions weren't so easy to read. She offers him what he guesses is supposed to be a consoling nod.

"I'm not going to ask what was in the letters, but did you never look for him since?"

Steve shakes his head, because no, the truth is, they didn't. It's not like the letters had been awful either; Bucky had made it clear he didn't want them blaming themselves, that it wasn't anything either of them had done. 

He and Brock had talked about it a lot in the weeks that followed; they'd assumed it came from wanting to find himself, or that perhaps he had wanted to spend a year or two travelling or soul searching.

Neither of them would have blamed him for that, his parents had passed away in his third year of college when his little sister Rebecca had just started her first. It was the summer just after she graduated that he disappeared, and she got a letter too of course. She'd never shown it to them, but she'd cried and said that he thought what with her plans to marry her long term boyfriend, and her getting a stable "responsible adult job" straight out of college that she didn't need him as much anymore. 

He'd been wrong, of course, but he hadn't left a return address for them to write and tell him so. 

Steve can't tell them that though, that they'd decided to respect his decision because they'd always thought he'd come back after a year or so of wandering, and so he shakes his head.

"We've the same cell phone numbers, any mail sent to our old address gets forwarded. We didn't..." 

He bites his lip, removes his glasses so he can take a quick moment to scrub at his eyes with the sleeves of his black turtleneck. He barely registers Brock moving from his seat, not until he's pressed into a warm line at his side, with a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders.

He leans in so the mic clipped to Steve's shirt will pick up his voice, a deep drawl that hints at a childhood spent in Queens.

"We wanted him to be happy, and if that meant being somewhere far away from us... Hell, I'd have built him a spaceship to the moon myself."

Steve leans into him a little, borrows his strength, despite the fact Brock surely should be the more disconsolate of the two of them. Steve always was that little bit more fragile though, when it comes to emotions and his friends anyway, certainly not in any other way.

He takes a deep breath before he takes over again;

"Bucky was always different, you know? He dreamt in matrices, saw the world as a product of its vectors, he had whole quasars in his eyes not stars."

The woman smiles and he can see she's touched, they all are. Certainly no one in the room looks like they'd rather be anywhere else as some had at the start. A hand goes up near the back, a girl dressed in purple with dark hair; Steve nods at her, but she seems hesitant to ask her question before she composes herself.

"You loved him?"

Steve wants to laugh. How does he even answer that? Bucky was... A supernova forcibly constrained in human form. He was frenetic energy, always over caffeinated, and the most charming thing in a room. He had always been the driving force behind their group of friends, everyone around him just kind of fed off his own special brand of delighted curiosity. 

The life of the party yet much more content in a room filled with computers, blackboards and reams of papers filled with scribble and equations and diagrams - so single-minded that when he ran out of room he had to resort to using dry erase markers on the windows.

Of course he had loved him, they both had. It would have been impossible not to.

Brock had been an automaton for those first few weeks, shutting down emotionally and literally every time anyone tried to talk about it - so eventually Steve had stopped mentioning Bucky's name, and that seemed to help. 

They'd stopped waiting for Bucky to come back after two years with no word. Steve had graduated with his Masters in conceptual art and Brock had kissed him on the college steps. Dipping him in his graduation robes like he was a princess in a ball gown; there's a photo somewhere, of Steve laughing and trying to hold his mortar board on with one hand while kissing him back.

Steve nods and takes Brock's hand in his own, his boyfriend squeezing tight, offering what support he can.

"We both did. In our own ways."

Brock sighs beside him before he speaks, and Steve feels a twinge in his chest when he realises that Brock still loves him too, after all this time. He squeezes his hand back.

"He was like this electric live wire - you always knew where he was in a room, people's eyes used to just... Follow him."

The girl in the purple nods her thanks, though she looks a little sad for them. She doesn't hesitate when she asks this time; 

"What do you think he's doing with his life now?"

Steve looks to Brock beside him, they've never spoken about this, imagined the what-if's. His boyfriend's amber gaze meets his own, and Steve is almost floored by the depth of emotion there. He feels the consoling motion as a careful thumb strokes the back of his hand gently. 

He turns back to the girl; 

"I don't know. Probably in some laboratory somewhere with piles of notes and equations. Like, papers everywhere. But I like to imagine he's happy. Wherever he is."

The woman who first asked, who started the whole sad story by asking who the figure is that dances across the sea of stars, holding planets in his grasp as he whirls like a dancer through the night sky, gestures. She gives the two of them a look that says 'I'm sorry for asking, but I'm glad I did' and even as Steve notices the assistant tapping his watch to indicate it's time to wrap up, he nods at her to ask the final question.

"Do you both miss him?"

Steve doesn't hesitate and neither does Brock; "Every day."

~*~

\--

**Somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere, New Mexico, Late September**

\--

James whines as he's rudely awakened by Darcy slamming the door of the trailer closed. The fact he can smell coffee is just about the only thing that saves her from a violent and messy end.

He drags himself out of bed, sitting up blearily and blinking sleep from his eyes. Jane and Thor are already awake - she's leaning into the other man's side where they're curled up on the padded bench that likes to masquerade as a couch, yet cuts off the circulation to your legs if you sit on it for too long, still with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"Morning." Jane doesn't sound much more awake than he is, but she's still a little too chipper for his liking.

James grunts in reply as he settles into the other corner of the bench, though he takes the proffered coffee when it's pressed into his hands. At least it's warm.

He thinks to himself for moment that Monday's suck, then he realises it's a Wednesday and decides that waking up in general just sucks. Why anybody makes the decision to get out of bed, ever, is completely beyond him. 

It's only when he takes another long sip of his "five sugars and probably too much milk" concoction that he remembers he mostly does it for the caffeine. 

He lets his head fall on the table with a dull thud, determinedly ignores Darcy and Jane's laughter and Thor's assertion that;

"It's going to be one of those days, my friend."

Because really, every day is one of those days. They've known him long enough by now to realise that the day he wakes up at ass crack of dawn and is happy about it, is the day they all need to run for the hills. Alien invasion confirmed. 

He lets a muffled moan where he's still face down on the table.

 

\--

 

It's Darcy that finds the interview, because of course it is. Apparently Tumblr has blown up overnight with the tragic tale of the 'star man' that walked off into the night and never came back. James kinda wants to correct them because it was about lunch time on a Thursday when he left New York, and it had actually been a fairly bright and sunny day at that.

Semantics, Darcy tells him. Don't let the facts get in the way of a good story.

 The thing is, looking at pictures of Steve and Brock, tracing his fingertips over their words on his laptop screen, they look good together.

He doesn't regret leaving, not in the way he perhaps should - there's a desperate longing deep in his chest and a weary melancholy that's settled in his bones and never quite left, but... his reasons were valid. Perhaps it is not that he doesn't regret leaving, because he does, he always will, but that he knows he had no other choice.

He looks at the photo of Brock - once his amazing guy with cheek bones you could cut yourself on and eyes like warm honey - curled around Steve, his eyes red behind his glasses, looking so small in his black turtleneck, wrapped in Brock's arms... God, neither of them have ever looked as beautiful.  

He's happy for them, he thinks. That the two of them found each other, that Steve's art is making him as much of a success as James knew he was destined to be.

She's curious, of course; Steve and Brock's side of things is there for all to see, clear as day in newsprint - but there's two sides to every story. She doesn't press though and for that he's grateful.

 

\--

 

That evening he's sat outside at their collapsible camping table when Jane comes to find him; warming his hands on a mug of coffee as he watches the sun set over the western horizon. He likes evenings like this - when the air cools and the smell of dry, cracked earth gives way to the night - agave sweet on the gentle breeze.

He doesn't look away from where his eyes are caught by the shimmer as the earth meets the sky and mirages dance at the edge of the realm of between. But he knows it's her, the swish of her loose hair and the quietness of her tread betray her.

"You should call them."

So Darcy showed her the articles.

He doesn't know how to respond to that, truthfully. If it were that easy he would have done so a long time ago. James has a list of achievements to his name, and a string of letters besides that tell people he's vastly over qualified for trekking around the desert with the motley crew. But then, so is Jane. Neither of them would rather be anywhere else though. 

But in the long list of things James apparently knows, the vast rotations of far off star fields, the ellipse of gas giants as they dance under the weight of their own gravity, vectors and quarks, proton showers, and matrices of impossible numbers.. The one thing he apparently cannot do, is explain human emotion. Or more specifically, his own.

He sighs and it's a weary sound, the weight of worlds attached to it;

"How? How do I even explain myself?"

James scrubs tired hands over his face, unsure where to look. He knows Jane will be nothing but kind, she's gentle where others are fierce, and strong where others would cower. She won't judge him, but sometimes her words cut a little too close to the truth.

 "Jane they're happy. I don't want to push in on that."

She hums softly and takes a hand gently between her own; unwinding his fingers and massaging a clenched palm until he thinks his very being might just melt and ooze out. Okay, he did not realise how stressed he was. He takes a minute to observe how ridiculous his meat paw of a hand looks in her dainty grip - he always feels so clumsy next to her, though he imagines, not so much as Thor. 

He closes his eyes when he begins to remember similar hands, artist’s hand, all sharp wrists and long fingers that liked to do clever things to his scalp when they combed through his hair.

When she finally speaks it's slow and considered, laced with her affection for him, and yet... There's steel in her words, Jane doesn't say things she does not mean. 

"They obviously miss you James, it's not intruding if they have publicly spoken about how much they would like to see you."

He bites his lower lip as he tries to organise his thoughts, it's a bad habit, and it leaves the skin sore and cracked in the desert heat. It's a comfort though, and he cannot quite bring himself to stop.

"I still talk to my sister Becca, she sees them every now and then - though admittedly not so much since she had the baby - but she said they seem happy."

He shakes his head and carefully tugs his hand away, folds his fingers together and brings his chin to rest on them as he peers up at her.

"I just don't want to turn up out of the woodwork when all it may be is a misplaced sense of nostalgia for what coulda been, you know?"

Jane reaches out and scritches a hand though his hair where it's coming loose from his bun, falling in shaggy waves.

"Why did you leave, James?"

He carefully pulls his head away so her fingers don't get tangled, looks away awkwardly where the sun is setting, casting long shadows and orange light over the dusty rock of the dust bowl.

"I loved both of them."

She eyes him curiously and he forges on. 

"My boyfriend, my handsome, strong, amazing best guy, who I'd been with since high school... Who was there for me when my parents passed away, and the years that came after college when I moved from one dead end job to another..."

His mouth upturns in a slight sneer and his voice is derisive as he continues.

"Brock was everything, but because I'm a piece of garbage he wasn't enough for me, and I fell in love with my best friend too."

Jane stands and slips around the table, wraps an arm around his shoulders so he can bury his face against her stomach. He can't look her in the eye right now.

"And did anything ever happen between you two? You and this Steve?"

His voice is muffled when he responds, but she obviously hears his staunch 'no' loud and clear because she pulls away for a minute, tips his chin up with an index finger. 

"Then it seems to me James, that you were entirely selfless about the matter. But I'm sure they would have rather you said something than just up and vanished from their lives - you'd have broken one heart not three that way."

The sun is nearly vanished over the horizon, and its low enough that he can look at its burnt red glow without it hurting his retinas. 

"That was selfish, not selfless. I couldn't choose, if it came to it I couldn't have given one of them up for the other, so I ran away like a coward. I'm glad they're happy together, I never deserved either of them."

Jane crouches down so they are eye to eye; "and would they agree with that? If they heard you saying that about yourself?"

He groans and closes his eyes - because no, they wouldn't. The two of them had always looked at him through rose tinted spectacles. Humoured his eccentricities and praised his differences. 

"No. Brock used to ask on a regular basis what he'd done to deserve me. I don't think he ever really understood that he was my knight in shining armour but I was an actual toad, not some frog prince under a spell."

She laughs then, and it's a surprised sound, she stands and tugs him upright with her.

"I knew you weren't as grumpy and tough as you pretend to be, Mr Disney Metaphors."

She leads him back to the warmth of the trailer, the sun is almost gone now and the night is cool, but he can see the stars starting to peek through the dust overhead as it settles over the world like a blanket of red grit. Tucking the desert in for the night.

"Promise me you'll think about it James, just giving them a call. Maybe giving them some closure."

He knows she won't let it go, so before he heads up the steps into the warmth of their little home on wheels he gives her a quick hug; puts all of his appreciation into that impromptu squeeze.

"Maybe. I'll think about it okay?"

She nods and smiles back, tugs on his bangs as she moves past him towards the couch where Thor is sprawled with a beer and a book.

James' heart aches for the casual domesticity as she tucks herself up beside him, laying her head on a well-muscled shoulder; he decides to turn in early that night. He's not lonely, he's not, and he has a trailer full of people here who care for him after all.

Just, sometimes, he cannot help but wonder what if... what if?

 

\--

 

He lasts a week before he calls, cannot understand his sudden urge to do so now when he's gone seven years without the temptation. Not once has he even called only to hang up before someone answers, though he is tempted to do so now.

He thinks perhaps it is because they are coming to the end of their yearlong study; it's mostly write ups and reports, getting ready to present their findings for peer review. There's nothing experimental and exciting that he can get lost in, let his mind run away with itself for days at a time, getting entangled in equations until he cannot remember his own name, let alone hazel eyes and a sunshine smile. 

This interview couldn't have happened at a worse time he thinks, than a period where he has little else to distract himself.

He hears the click as someone answers, subconsciously holds his breath - it was Steve he called, unable to face Brock first. He didn't know if he would even answer, after all, he's changed phones and phone numbers many times in the last few years - thanks to what he's termed 'field casualties' (mostly involving an absent mind, delicate glass screens and bare rock).

He almost drops his phone in surprise now.

"Hello?"

"Steve."

He barely whispers the other man's name, lets it ghost over his lips like a prayer.

"Who is this...?"

Steve sounds confused, but still very much the same as he did seven years ago. He cannot bring himself to answer that question, isn't sure he knows.

"..."

It's a relief when quick witted as ever Steve makes the connection.

"Bucky?"

He lets out the breath he's been holding, he's slightly dizzy with the head rush but there's a weight to his voice when he speaks, heavy with a seven year burden;

"Yeah."

"Oh my god."

Steve's voice cracks on the last word, and James - Bucky - can hear the pounding of feet in the background as someone snatches the phone away from the blond man.

"Bucky. Kid, what the fuck…?"

"Brock."

He can feel his own throat tightening, closes his eyes and drinks in the sound of his ex-partners vowels, loose and clipped in that way he's had since he was a teen.

"Please."

That single word, whispered in a gruff voice, but with such desperate emotion attached to it that he can't help but think of a small abandoned child:

"I'm sorry. I am ... I'm so, so sorry."

Brock doesn't say anything, but he can hear his breath hitch in the way that lets him know the other man's eyes are no longer dry. It's Steve who takes over, his voice high and breathy - as though he's afraid at any moment Bucky will just up and disappear again.

"Where are you?!"

He doesn't give him long enough to reply before he's apologising, as though the demand slipped from his mouth before he could quite catch it and stop it in its tracks. "No wait, I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that."

Bucky sighs and feels the crushing pressure lift from his chest a little, they do at least sound like they wanted to hear from him; like this isn't something they would rather pretend never happened.

"No, no Stevie, its fine. I'm in New Mexico, studying cosmological phenomena."

He can't help but smile when he speaks, he loves his work, and though he doesn't love the desert, it beats Alaska last February that's for sure. 

"New Mexico?"

"Yeah. Middle of the desert. Quite a change from city living, huh?"

He hears Brock's chuckle and feels that familiar warmth spread in his chest, what he wouldn't give to experience that laugh the way he used to. Laying on the couch draped over the older man, chests pressed together, almost nose to nose, so when either of them laughs the other can feel it as a vibration in their very bones.

Steve is the one to pipe up, Bucky is content to sit and watch the horizon, listen to the sound of their breathing in unison. 

"Did you… Did you never think about calling or coming back?"

He bites at his lip a little before he replies, unsure whether or not to go with the truthful answer or one he feels would perhaps hurt a little less. But Steve has never appreciated anyone pulling punches or cushioning blows for him before, Bucky highly doubts even seven years has changed him that much.

"Honestly? I think about both of you. Everyday. But no, I imagined it sure, about what it might be like, but no I was never tempted."

He hears Steve's intake of breath, and it's Brock's low drawl that asks;

"Why?"

He scrapes a hand through his hair, tugging a little at the ends that have bleached a little under the summer sun.

"I had my reasons for leaving, and to be honest, those reasons are probably... Well I have even more conviction in them now than I did back then."

Brock doesn't sound angry, just hums in reply. He's never pushed Bucky when he's not ready to talk, he has always appreciated that about him. Steve however has never done any such thing;

"What reasons, Buck?"

He tries not to snap when he replies:

"Personal ones, Steven." 

Because it isn't the little blonde’s fault, not really. Bucky cannot even imagine how he would have reacted, had Steve been the one to vanish without a trace. He would have probably, in all honesty, torn the world apart trying to find him. 

He supposes that he should appreciate the fact they gave him the dignity of his choice seven years ago, they deserve some answers now; 

"Brock, I loved you with... Everything I had, okay?" 

It's true, it's not even a lie. He had loved both of them, but he had loved them in different ways and for different reasons.

"And Steve... God, Stevie, you weren't just my best friend. I've not had a friend like you since."

He hears the small muffled choking noise that tells him Steve's trying to hide his sniffles against Brock's chest. His heart aches that he isn't there to wrap his arms around the two of them, to hold them tightly and swear to never let either go again. 

"So what now?" 

Even Brock's voice sounds thick with emotion when he speaks; and Bucky imagines kissing away the damp trails over sharp cheekbones, until his mouth tastes of salt and there's a happy flush to his ex-partners cheeks again. 

Bucky twists his free hand awkwardly in the hem of his shirt, he can't give them much, but maybe he can give them this.  

"Maybe, maybe I could come visit."

He hears the twin sharp intakes of breath, as the two of them stumble over each other trying to speak at the same time.

"You better not be fucking with us, kid."

"You'd do that?"

He has to fight down a grin, even as tears threaten to fall. 

"Sure, why not, seems there's a lot I've missed."

He cannot do much, after all, he's seven years too late for an apology - but he will do what he can.

~*~

\--

**La Guardia, New York, Early October**

\--

They see him as soon as he walks into the arrivals terminal; the two have them have already been here over half an hour, unable to sit still at home any longer, not now, knowing that they’re so close.

He walks through the arrivals gate, a black bag slung over one shoulder, and both of them feel their breath catch in their throat; seven years, and he looks like he hasn't aged a day. Just about the only thing different is his hair – neither of them can tell how long it is, pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck like that - but its longer than either of them have seen before.

He looks hesitant, but Brock has no such inhibitions – throws himself into the brunettes arms, barely even registering surprised blue eyes as strong arms wrap around him tight. He feels Steve join them a few seconds later, slipping one small hand into his own, he must have walked rather than running in an undignified muddle. Brock can’t bring himself to care.

"Bucky."

Everything feels too tight to breathe, and his voice catches in his chest as he chokes out that single word against the small of his childhood sweetheart’s throat. He can feel that his face is wet but he doesn’t remember letting any tears fall.

He’s relieved to hear that Bucky is no less composed when he speaks.

"Steve, Brock."  

Steve doesn’t say anything, just holds them tighter, and Brock tightens his hold on the blondes hand.

“I was gonna suggest getting lunch somewhere, but… maybe we could just go home and order pizza?”

Brock feels Bucky’s laughter ruffle his hair where his head is tucked beneath his chin, and god, he’s here and warm and _safe_.

 

\--

 

They pile onto the sofa after Steve gives Bucky a quick tour of the place they moved into a few years back, keeps a grip on the brunettes sleeve as he leads him about, as though he thinks he might just disappear before his eyes if he doesn’t have that physical reassurance.

Brock watches them as he rings through the order to a pizza place a few blocks over, the same one they’ve been ordering from since Bucky and Brock got their first apartment together 12 years ago, when Bucky started college. He watches them and thinks it speaks volumes that Bucky doesn’t protest the constant contact – every time one of them enters a room his eyes do this thing where it looks like he can’t quite believe they’re there either.

Brock wants to wrap him up in his arms and never let him go again. They have him for the whole weekend before they have to let him go back to his work on Sunday night, and he intends to spend every moment from now until then without letting him leave his sight – he’s pretty sure Steve is one hundred percent on-board with that plan.

There seems to be some kind of mutual agreement that they aren’t going to talk about what led them here right now; it’s the first Friday Movie Night with all of them together in seven long years and Brock wants to make the most of it, hold onto the memory just in case he never gets the chance again. They may go their separate ways on Sunday, and Bucky might decide that amends have been made, and that though it was nice to see the two of them he has no interest in repeating the experience.

Brock hopes not; he truly, with all the heart he has in him, hopes that isn’t the case.

But he doesn’t say that, give voice to the fear that curdles his stomach and makes his toes curl, that this may just be their actual last good bye. He wants this weekend to be perfect if it’s to be their swan song.

The pizzas arrive and the three of them pile onto sofa just like they used to; Brock on the right, Steve on the left, and Bucky tucked between the two of them. They make quick work of the pizzas to the tune of some shitty sci-fi movie marathon, but it’s not about the films themselves, it never has been, it’s the company.

It’s a full belly, a warm blanket tucked around the three of them, and a comfortable quiet in the dark, the room lit only by the flickering of the television. Brock falls asleep last, taking a long moment to watch the other two before he does, Bucky tucked up under his arm, his face against his chest, Steve draped over him in turn, one small hand reaching out to wind itself in the fabric of Brocks sweater.

He reaches out a hand to gently sweep blonde bangs off a forehead that in sleep looks anxiety free, and so, so much younger. His brunette counterpart is much the same, he’s tanned from his work in the desert heat, rough around the edges in a way he never was before, and his shoulder length hair is bleached at the tips by the sun. But in sleep, Bucky too looks like the clock could easily have turned back seven years while they were distracted by a multitude of junk food and bad special effects.

The only two people he has ever loved, with his entire heart and soul, warm and _together_ in his arms.

Brock falls asleep feeling like perhaps more than just Bucky came home today.

 

\--

 

They wake up early on Saturday morning, half regretting the choice of sleeping arrangements – falling asleep in front a movie marathon may have been a time honoured tradition up until seven years ago, but now there’s stiff limbs and backs to consider that somehow never seemed to be a problem when they were young, stupid, and normally drunk.

Steve is the first up, shifting to get more comfortable where he’s sprawled against Bucky’s chest, his hand still wound in the fabric of his boyfriend’s sweater. Brock is not the prettiest of sleepers, and he has to bite back his laughter at the way his head is tipped back, catching flies while mumbling to himself.

He has to admit, the way long dark eyelashes fan over olive cheekbones is quite the appealing sight though.

He nuzzles further under Bucky’s chin, a heavy arm draped around his waist preventing him from getting up without first waking the other man, and he’d looked tired last night. He doesn’t have to wait long for him to wake though, scrunching his nose adorably at the way Steve’s hair is tickling his nose, blinking stormy blue eyes blearily up at him.

“G’morning. Coffee.”

It’s nice to see Bucky hasn’t changed all that much, he thinks, that he still doesn’t have all mental faculties in order until he’s sunk at least his second cup of coffee. Steve giggles as he slides off the sofa, Bucky finally releasing him from his sleep warm hold.

“My name is Steve, not coffee, but nice to see you still have your priorities in order.”

He ignores the grumble-moan he gets in return and rolls his eyes, going to set the coffee maker ready before using the bathroom. By the time he returns he’s pretty sure Bucky is fast asleep again, and Brock hasn’t moved at all.

Not that Steve is all that surprised – that man could, and has, slept through an earth tremor before.

He peers out from the kitchen doorway while he waits for the coffee to brew, his boyfriend and his once best friend curled around each other like the last time this happened was yesterday – not seven years ago.

It feels a little too much like deja-vu, and a little melancholic besides considering this isn’t something he gets to keep, so he drags himself away and sets to making the coffee. If there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to pull both men from slumber it’s the smell of coffee.

It works because five minutes later a pair of strong hands slide round his waist, slipping under his shirt as his boyfriend pulls him back against him, leaning down to nuzzle against his neck and jawline.

Steve spins in his hold, trapped between the cage of Brock’s arms and the counter, tiptoes up to brush a gentle kiss over his lips, pulling back before he can deepen it to reach behind him and press a mug off coffee into his hands.

Brock presses a quick kiss to his forehead in appreciation, and lingers a few minutes longer before he lets Steve free from his hold, the two of them soaking up the morning light and the smell of caffeine, two warm bodies swaying together a little.

Steve takes the third cup and smiles up at Brock,

“I’m going to deliver the beast his caffeine before I shower, so he may return to human form.”

Brock laughs, full bodied and real and radiant where he’s outlined in the morning light from the kitchen window, because this is a familiar routine. Seven years, and nothing has changed, even as everything has changed.

 

\--

 

When they get home after a day spent wandering the area he used to know so intimately, parks he used to study in, the café they used to grab lunch at, the dime arcade they used to skip class to hang out at when hung-over… Bucky can feel the anticipation heavy in the air - and he knows the conversation is coming that he’s desperately been avoiding. He thinks perhaps he should just be grateful that he at least got these two days with them. That, if this is the last time he sees either of them, he has new memories to take away with him - of the two best guys he’s ever known - to tide him through the next seven long years.

He waits until Steve has made all three of them mugs of hot chocolate to ward off the chill of fall, follows when the smaller blond man suggests they move to the couch, and sips his drink in the last of the comfortable silence. It’s when Brock clears his throat awkwardly, sets his mug aside, that the full weight of what’s about to happen hits him.

It’s a shame he can’t put this off just a little longer, it’s been seven years after all, what difference is a few more hours going to make? He almost wants to laugh at how much of a child he’s being about it – dragging his heels as though through sheer willpower he can make sure it never happens at all.

He sits awkwardly on the couch, twisting his hands together and avoiding eye contact with both Steve perched beside him, and Brock sat on the low coffee table facing the both of them. He sighs;

“I know I owe you both an explanation, but I was a coward then, and...”

He sweeps his hand through his hair, jumping a little as his fingers catch on a tangle.

“Goddamn, what d’you know, I’m still a coward now.”

Steve reaches out a hand cautiously, as though comforting a wounded animal, as he sets a hand on his knee. Bucky tries to play off the way he startles from the touch, but he can tell Brock has noticed from the way he leans forwards, rests his elbows on his knees, tries to catch his eyes where they’re studiously fixated on the grain of the laminate flooring.

“Buck, whatever it is… We are the last two people who would judge you for it, or whatever the hell it is you’re worried about.”

And Bucky could take them being angry, he’d half expected raised voices and resentment, not this gentle concern like the two of them want to wrap him up safe, hide him away from the world.

He bites his lip, if telling them is what it takes to push them away… To make them wish they’d never again set eyes on him, so they can be happy together and with time forget they ever knew a James Buchanan Barnes…

He takes a deep breath, and cuts in when he can see Steve is about to offer some other vague platitude, some misplaced care that he’s never deserved.

"I was in love with both of you, okay?!"

Stunned silence greets him, and he can’t bring himself to look at either of them, to see the anger and disgust no doubt marring those two handsome faces that he’s loved with his whole heart for the last eleven years.

It’s Brock who is first to break the silence;

"What…?”

Just as he expected, there’s a tinge of venom in the softly spoken word. He tries not to let his voice crack as he shrugs off Steve’s hand still gripping his knee, feels the absence of it as though he’s been cast loose from an anchor, left adrift. He stands abruptly and makes to head to the guest room where his carry-on is stashed.

"This was a bad idea, I should go. I’m so sorry."

Its Brock’s quick hand that whips out to grasp his wrist that makes him pause, as much as Steve’s plaintive cry;

"No, Bucky please! Stay!"

He lifts his head to take in the two pale faces, and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as he sees that Brock’s golden eyes are already spilling over with silent tears. He allows the older man to reel him in, goes willingly as he tugs him close, wrapping arms around him tightly as he buries his nose in untidy hair.

“Please, kid. Talk to us. The way you should have seven years ago.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh and feels it crack into a half sob as he does, hides his face against Brock’s chest even as he feels Steve’s arms, thin but strong, sure, wind around him from behind.

"Brock, you were... So much more than just my 'boyfriend', I'd have spent my life with you."

He feels the muffled chuckle against his hair.

“Me too kid, me too.”

Bucky feels his muscles tighten as he prepares to say what needs to be said, focuses despite the small hand rubbing soothing circles against his shaking shoulders.

"But Steve, God, Stevie... The thing is,” he pauses to take a breath, steel his resolve, “although I'd never have cheated on you Brock, I just ... Couldn't imagine a world without Steve either."

He pulls away a little, feels how Steve hooks a sharp chin over his shoulder as he looks up to meet amber eyes with blue slate.

"So you left both of us?"

Brock looks devastated, and Bucky has to close his eyes at the sight.

"Yeah, and…” he doesn’t open his eyes, but he lets a small smile dance at the corners of his mouth anyway, “it looks like it's worked out pretty well for both of you."

He turns to meet wide sky blue eyes with his, catching Steve as he falls forwards to wrap trembling arms around his neck.

"None of us could have been happy if I'd stayed. Please, please understand that."                   

His voice breaks on the last word, pretends he doesn’t feel the curl of warmth in his chest as Brock tugs him up so the both of them are resting in his lap, strong arms wrapped around the two of them as though they are a barrier between them and the outside world.

Bucky feels rather than sees as Steve shakes his head, he breathes in the scent of the blonds hibiscus shampoo – the same one he’s used since college. It’s heady and familiar, it smells like home.

"I understand how you must have felt Bucky,” Steve’s voice sounds tight with anger, but from the way he’s shaking in Bucky’s arms, he’d be willing to bet he’s trying to hold too much back and is just bending under the weight of it. “But... You were wrong."

Bucky sighs, leans back a little into the strong warmth of Brock against his back, something so familiar he could almost close his eyes and pretend the last seven years have been a bad dream.

 "Wrong? Steven how do you think either of you would have taken it if I'd told my boyfriend I was in love with my best friend too? At least this way you guys got each other. And really, I'm happy for you."

 Brock’s breath is warm against his ear, and Bucky feels a shiver creep down his spine even as he’s conscious that now is hardly the time to react to something like that.

Steve pulls away from him just far enough to look up at him with angry blue eyes;

“And what about you Bucky? Did you not figure anywhere in all that you deserved to be happy too?”

And Bucky has to choke back a laugh at the thought,

“No.”

He watches as Steve catches Brock’s eyes over his shoulder, and he feels a pang of nostalgia for the days when he and Steve could have silent conversations like that, a world only they were privy too, even from across a crowded room. Maybe he’d been screwed from the start, maybe he’d never had a chance.

Then warms lips meet his own in a searing kiss and he’s unable to think of much of anything as he feels hot breath and the nip of sharp teeth against the side of his throat.

 

\--

 

Bucky isn’t quite sure what’s happening at first, all he knows is the weight in his arms, sharp elbows and clever fingers that slip under the hem of his shirt to trace the defined lines of his stomach… That’s Steve – his Stevie, the same boy he used to look after when he had a cold, bring him his class notes and chicken soup, the boy he pulled out of far too many fights outside the student’s union bar, because some girl or another was being bothered by an asshole with an inflated ego and a sense of entitlement.

That same Steve is kissing him now, and its hot and dirty with just the right amount of tongue, pressing into him with a desperation and need that Bucky knows comes from the seven years they’ve spent apart; seven years of ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s’ and ‘if only’s’.

That doesn’t pale in comparison to the knowledge that the teeth and wet mouth nibbling at his collar bone belong to the once great love of his life; his first kiss, sixteen at the time, under the bleachers back when he was still awkward with braces and coltish long limbs he didn’t know what to do with.

They’re here, and he’s here, and they’re kissing him, and Bucky wants to pinch himself - because not even in his wildest dreams and fantasies has anything come close to this.

“Brock,” he gets out, as Steve breaks the kiss long enough to tug Bucky’s shirt up and off, leaving his skin bare for Brock to continue mouthing gentle bites along his clavicle, moving from there to the hollow of his throat as Steve slips down to kneel on the floor between his parted legs, nosing at his bared chest.

He gasps aloud as Steve circles first one nipple with his tongue, then the other, worrying gently at the pink buds before laving them better with a clever tongue, and Christ, Bucky didn’t even know Steve was capable of something like this.

Brock moves from where he’s draped over Bucky’s back to tug his own shirt off, makes a noise of surprise when he notices the new addition to his left bicep; the constellation of Orion, Betelgeuse a gleaming red in the top left corner. He reaches a gentle finger out to trace Orion’s belt, and Steve looks over and hums in appreciation at the sight of the stars picked out on his flesh in brilliant cobalt and red.

“Got any more of these we should know about…?” Brock smirks and raises an eyebrow in challenge, Bucky cannot help the cackle of delight.

“Not yet,” he offers them a grin in return, but is cut off with a moan as Steve takes to tracing the outlines with his mouth, pressing a row of butterfly kisses all across the star map.

Brock captures his mouth with his own, and as they kiss for the first time in seven lonely years Bucky thinks he might just be the luckiest man alive. Brock is fierce, and Bucky can’t help the small sounds he makes as a wicked tongue chases his own, as sharp white teeth tease at his bottom lip, and he’s vaguely aware that Steve has moved his attentions from his arm to his abs, mapping every defined line slowly with his tongue and teeth as Brock pushes him backwards on the table, laying him out like a centrefold spread.

Steve reaches the dip of his Adonis lines and noses at the soft hair that trails from his bellybutton down below the waistband of his jeans, Bucky bites his lip, whining as he resists the urge to move his hips. Brock sits back to watch, tracing short finger nails over the cut of his ribs where lean muscles is sparse, and he can’t help but whimper at the contact.

 Steve looks up at him, a smile tugging the corner of his lips as he pauses his ministrations;

“You want this Buck…?”

His grin is impish and Bucky has never been able to say no to that face, not once yet, so he can only nod and look over to Brock to check that it’s okay to want this, that its _allowed,_ even as Steve returns to peppering short sweet kisses between the jut of Bucky’s hip bones.

Brock grins back at him, and it’s downright predatory – sharp white teeth and amber eyes that flash with want; Bucky knows that look, has missed that look more than he’s ever been willing to admit.

He lets out a keen as Steve follows the small trail of hairs down to his cock, nosing over the denim of his jeans where its tented almost painfully, Brock leaning over to claim his mouth again, pressing his hips down with a single strong forearm as Steve sets to work mouthing his cock through the fabric.

He can feel his boxers dampening, and the lack of friction combined with the fact he can’t move is maddening, he’s barely even aware of the litany of words spilling from his lips as Steve slips two fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Bucky could cry at the maddening slow place, as Steve takes his time unbuttoning his jeans while Brock ravishes his mouth, leaves his lips pink and swollen as Steve finally frees his cock from its confines. He moans as the cool air hits the over sensitized head, even as Brock moves to press a line of kisses against the cut of his jaw.

He brings shaky hands up to roam over Brock’s body, familiar territory yet unfamiliar all the same, his defined pectoral muscles and washboard abs not as lean as his early twenties, but still something to behold.

Bucky wails, can’t hold it in, as Steve moves from nosing around the base of his cock to taking the head in his mouth, hot, wet and tight, only Brocks weight is keeping him pinned in place so he can’t thrust up into that perfect heat.

With that Brock sits up to drink the sight in, Bucky spread out before them like he’s theirs for the taking – a quick glance at Steve who nods and smirks back, and Bucky finds himself in the air all of a sudden, his legs wrapped around Brock’s narrow waist, as strong arms support his thighs.

He guesses it must be the master bedroom they’re in when Brock drops him on his back in the sheets, Steve crawling up beside him to claim his mouth again. Bucky whimpers at the touch, as strong slim fingers wrap around his flushed cock while Steve maps his mouth with his tongue.Steve tastes of hot chocolate and autumn spice, and for some reason, faintly of apples, and its heady and addicting and altogether almost too much. He pulls away gently as he feels the whoosh of air as he’s freed entirely from his jeans, and glares over at a triumphant looking Brock, who’s shirtless but otherwise dressed.

“You are both wearing too many clothes.”

He gets laughter from both of them in response, and Steve obligingly tugs off his sweater. Bucky loses track of Brock after that, caught up in tracing the bared expanse of milk white skin.

“God you’re beautiful Stevie…”

He feels laughter bubbling up, simply cannot help it, no matter that he knows the ultimate taboo is to laugh during sex - at risk of offending your partner, or, _partners_ \- but this is Steve, and Brock, and Bucky doesn’t know how they got here, doesn’t know how it can possibly be okay for him to roll Steve over so he’s kneeling over him, looking down at a pink flushed face, blond hair in disarray, even as he feels Brock come to kneel behind him, rubbing a large gentle palm over the curve of his bared spine.

So he goes with it, and laughs even as he presses butterflies and kitten licks over every inch of creamy skin he can reach.

He gasps as he feels warm breath between his cheeks, he has Steve exactly where he wants him, able to nip at his jaw and press a line of searing kisses down his breast bone between his pecs, even as he reaches down to cup his hardening cock, thumbing the fabric of his briefs over the head, where pre-come is already dampening the fabric.

Apparently laid out over Steve like this is exactly where Brock wants him though, and he can’t help the whine as a tongue darts and laves over his perineum, dipping teasingly between the ring of tight muscles.

He arches his hips against Steve’s, moving his hand out of the way in favour of rolling their hips together as he lavishes the smaller man in kisses and nips until his lips are as red as his own and he looks thoroughly debauched.

Not that he can concentrate much on that right now; between Steve’s sharp jerks upwards, their cocks already leaking where they’re trapped between the press of their bodies, and the delicious wet heat as Brock takes him apart from the inside. Curves his tongue against the edge of his rim as he moves in and out, so there’s a gentle pop every time he withdraws.

Brock carefully withdraws but before Bucky can protest, he hears the tell-tale crack sound of a bottle of lube being opened, and he’s rewarded only a few moments later with two thick fingers, tight inside him, stretching him wide. He pushes back against them a little, kneels so he can reach down and free Steve’s cock where it’s still trapped in his briefs, so he can lean in take it in his mouth right down to the root in one fluid motion that has Steve whining and tangling his fingers in his hair, Brock groaning in appreciation at the sight.

Brock slowly fucks those two fingers in and out of him, Steve appreciating every whine and hum that draws from Bucky’s pretty mouth, sending vibrations straight into his leaking cock where it’s pressed against the wet heat of the brunette’s throat. Brock carefully adds a third finger and Bucky pulls off Steve’s cock with a wet pop, letting it bob against his flushed lips for a moment, making for quite the obscene visual from Steve’s perspective.

Then Bucky’s nosing between Steve’s own cheeks, as the other man groans and obligingly spreads his legs wide so he has access to do as he pleases. Bucky moves his tongue in and out of him slowly, memorising every velvet inch of him, the warm musk that is _Steve_ making him heady. He reaches back for Brock to pass him the lube when Steve’s already nice and relaxed, and presses a careful finger into him even as Brock adds a third.

Bucky can’t help it as he cries out and arches back, Brock brushing teasingly over his prostate in the best possible way, and his cock bobs appreciatively against his stomach, pre cum painting the cut of his abs even as a bead of sweat trails down his chest to meet it.

Bucky watches the way Steve’s eyes track its motion, and he leans forwards to capture the blonde’s mouth in his own, even as he adds a second finger to his ministrations. He knows when he’s found the other man’s sweet spot, because Steve is almost as delightfully vocal as he himself is, small whines and keening noises slipping from between parted pink lips as Bucky adds a third finger, and brushes over it as he darts forwards to catch the bead of sweat that’s tracing the sharp line of the smaller man’s jaw.

Brock slowly withdraws and at the sudden sense of being left wide open and wanting Bucky whines needily; he wants, no _needs_ , somebody inside him right now. He feels Brock chuckle against the soft skin behind his ear, Brock knows exactly what that noise means, knows he wants, needs, to feel full, to feel taken care of.

“Just a moment sweetheart.” Brock promises, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips before pulling back to search the bedside drawer for condoms.

When he’s found them he wastes little time, settling himself back against the pillows so he’s vaguely upright, rolling on a condom and tugging Bucky backwards so his back is to his chest. Bucky sighs and lowers himself slowly onto the other man’s cock; it’s been far too long but it’s like his body still remembers the shape of him, the way it opens up and allows him to take it right the way down, arching back against his chest as Brock reaches round gives Bucky’s own cock a few experimental pumps that make him clench tightly around him – the two of them groaning in unison.

Steve waits for them to get comfortable before he settles over Bucky’s lap – facing him and Brock, and he makes best use of that – kissing his boyfriend long and slow even as he rolls a condom on for Bucky one-handed, and sinks down on his flushed cock, bouncing slightly, taking him an inch at a time.

The tight wet heat is almost too much – especially when he’s as full as he is – and Bucky moans wantonly, thrusting his hips involuntarily in a half aborted motion.

Brock pulls back from Steve’s sinful mouth to laugh low and dark in his ear, chastises him;

“Greedy boy…”

But it’s all Bucky can do to just nod in agreement, to Brock’s obvious delight if the twist of his hips and careful thrust are anything to go by. Bucky feels every inch of his body in stark relief, every nerve ending alight with white hot fire and he sighs as he drops his head back onto Brock’s shoulder, Steve taking the opportunity to press hot open mouthed kisses against the exposed line of his throat.

“M’ready.” He gasps out.

Brock sets the pace, slowly at first but quickly picking up when he realises how much Bucky wants this – how much he needs it, to feel every inch of him surrounded by these two other bodies, wrapped up in strong arms and wet heat, filled right up.

Steve is free to set his own pace, but moves with them, and Bucky takes his cock in hand, flushed red and weeping at the tip, and a lot larger than Bucky would have probably given him credit for with his slender frame.

Brock is relentless with the roll of his hips, and before long with every drag of his hard cock against his prostate, Bucky can feel the slow build in the base of his spine; tightening his balls, and making him squirm and writhe in Brock’s arms, his walls trembling around him.

Brock bites down on Bucky’s exposed shoulder when he comes, and Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth where it’s pressed to his own. Steve presses down in a delightful half twist motion that has Bucky spiralling over the edge pleasure setting every nerve ending he possesses alight, and he barely has the mental faculties left to jerk Stevie just a few times more, until he’s spilling over both their stomachs and chests.

Steve moves off first, Bucky staying where he is for a moment, admiring the gorgeous blond panting on the bed beside him, but taking a few minutes to regain the use of his legs before he tries to move away from Brock. He removes the condom first, tossing it in the trashcan beside the bed before rolling himself away to collapse half on top of Steve who barely protests. Brock disappears for a few moments and Bucky would be worried if he had the energy, but he returns a few minutes later with a damp washcloth that he takes gratefully, tending to Steve before he swipes it over his own stomach and chest.

He drops it on the pile of dirty clothes they left strewn in their wake, vowing to put in the laundry first thing tomorrow, but he’s boneless and tired, post-orgasmic bliss saturating his limbs – so when Brock tugs him under the blanket, the three of the curled together in a pile of warmth so that he doesn’t know where he ends and the other two begin, he’s asleep within minutes.

 

\--

 

Steve wakes to tendrils of morning light brushing over his cheek bones, and he basks in the combined warmth of the sun and the two bodies wrapped around his own. He thinks, if he were to be struck down right now, he’d die the happiest man alive.

Blinking his eyes open slowly, allowing them time to adjust – he’s in no rush after all – he smiles fondly at the brunette head pillowed on his chest. Bucky Barnes he thinks, his impossible, amazing, star man.

He traces the constellation mapped on his friends left bicep, thinks of things like ancient navigators crossing desert and sea, finding their way home by star chart. Bucky grumbles in his sleep and wiggles against his chest; Steve tries not to giggle aloud. Bucky had always been ticklish.

Brock stirs on the other side of him; after five years together it’s one of those things he can tell without looking, small shifts in his boyfriends breathing, though the way the arm tightens around his waist and his earlobe becomes a convenient snack to nibble at is more than a hint too.

“Morning.” He whispers softly, leaning back into Brock’s embrace as his partner drapes his chin over his left shoulder, peers down at Bucky’s mop of hair where he’s face down on Steve’s chest, huffing softly against the lean muscle there.

Brock hums low in his throat, something warm borne of deep satisfaction and Steve can’t help but agree.

He gets a chaste kiss, morning breath is never fun after five years together, and Brock slips out of bed, tugging on the nearest pair of boxers left abandoned on the bedroom floor. He whispers to Steve and indicates towards the door;

“I’m going to make breakfast, well, lunch, while sleeping beauty has you pinned down.”

Steve smiles back, love for his boyfriend swelling in his chest like something tangible, and he nods, smoothing a gentle hand through Bucky’s hair as he watches Brock leave, swaying his hips as he does for Steve’s pleasure. Steve knows – no man naturally moves like walking sex.

 

\--

 

Steve is the one to say it - plates set aside, the three of them full and lethargic again - to give voice to the thought that none of them want to say aloud;

"What are we going to do now?"

Bucky bites his lip, sits upright and moves away, just a little, from where he was sprawled against Brock’s side.

"I guess, we go back to our lives?”

"Bucky..."

It’s Brock who objects, which isn’t quite what he was expecting, in all honesty. Steve had been ready with a quick retort of his own, but his boyfriend beat him to it. He watches as Bucky turns to face him, sits cross legged so he can cup that handsome jawline in his hands force hazel eyes up to meet his own.

"Brock, you have a great thing going on here with Steve.”

Steve wants to sigh and roll his eyes, because yes they know that, but that is quite beside the point. He thinks that perhaps now isn’t the time for that, though; not when Bucky looks like he might just cry again. Instead he moves over to join them, slips onto the bed so he can lean into Bucky’s side, wrap an arm around his slim waist and rest his cheek against the shoulder with the sprinkle of stars on it.

“And Steve... God, Steve. You've achieved everything I always knew you were capable of, and you sure didn't need me here to do it."

Steve feels his breath hitch in his throat even as Bucky tilts his head down to rest against his own – they used to nap like this during late night study sessions, propping each other upright when they ran late - fell asleep draped over textbooks and stacks of notes.

Bucky runs a gentle hand up and down his forearm, his calloused fingers belying the rigour of his work, which Steve had assumed would always mean chalk stained fingertips and lecture halls. Not Alaskan wilderness and open desert and who the hell knows where else.

Bucky turns to press a chaste kiss against his hairline;

"I can't just... Show up out of nowhere and intrude on your lives."

Steve’s voice trembles a little when he next speaks, but he knows now, not to argue with Bucky when he’s set his mind to something - convinced himself that this is his only option. But knowing what Bucky is capable of, taking to the hills and not looking back, well… that doesn’t mean Steve won’t go down without a fight.

"What if we want you here..? The both of us?"

He hears the weary note slip into Bucky’s tone when he replies, but his embrace is strong and sure when he shifts to slip an arm each around him and Brock, pulling them into the warmth of his bare skin. Bucky has always run hot, like starlight crackles barely visible beneath his skin – he thinks, wryly, perhaps that is why he’s always been so electric.

"That's not how the real world works Steven. What happens now is I board a plane back to New Mexico where my colleagues are waiting for me, you carry on promoting your collection, and Brock..."

He offers Brock a wry grin at that; "Just does whatever Brock does. Seven years later and I still can't bring myself to ask for details."

He gets a chuckle in response to that, a heartfelt one, and Steve can’t bring himself to disagree.

"I'll visit. It's nearly Christmas, we'll be finished up in the south in a couple of months. Start of December, if you still want me here, I'll come stay with you until we know what the next project is in the New Year."

Steve peers up at him, eyes wide, because that feels a little bit like a promise, and a lot like the stirring of hope sparking in his chest.

"Buck..."

Bucky nods and presses his forehead to Steve’s own, squeezing him tighter.

"Steve I swear, after a month you'll be sick of the sight of me and pushing me out of the door in January."

Steve does laugh then, because that’s the Bucky he remembers – sarcastic and cocksure and altogether too good for any of them.

"C'mere kid."

Steve lets Brock tug Bucky away from him and into his arms, watches the two of them settle into each other like two parts to a puzzle. He looks at the strong lines of their musculature, the way they curve into each other instinctively, at how it’s hard to tell where olive skin ends and desert tan begins. He thinks, Bucky belongs with them; this is _right_.

"Brock, I..."

Steve watches as Brock shushes him, brushes a chaste kiss against pink lips to stop any protests in their tracks. He thinks, kissing Bucky quiet may just be a good strategy for the future; if they keep him distracted in bed long enough, he won’t have the time to concoct any more hare-brained schemes.

Brock smiles down at him and Steve watches the content settle across James Buchanan Barnes’ face – he thinks to himself, I am so in love with these two beautiful improbable men.

"Nah, I understand. It's been a long time sweetheart. You always have a place with us though, I want you to know that."

Steve meets Bucky’s eyes when the brunette turns to him, as if for confirmation, and he takes one tan hand between his own – pale and small in comparison. Sun and moon he thinks. He nods at Bucky, brings his hand up to press a gentle kiss against those fingers.

"Yeah."

Bucky turns back to Brock and smiles, as though things are starting to slot into place inside his head. Steve feels such a rush of affection and gratitude to his partner in that moment, he always understood Bucky best, no matter how close Bucky and Steve might have been, might yet be, he thinks, and the thought warms his soul from the inside out.

"I mean it. You've too much energy to stay in one place for the rest of your life, and in a city with so much light pollution you can't even see the night sky. It's okay, I get that."

Bucky sighs, squeezes Steve’s hand tightly with his own and buries his face against Brock’s shoulder – though this time it’s not out of a misplaced sense of shame or fear, it’s to hide the grin that twitches at the corners of his mouth, that threatens to spill across his face like so much light.

"You always got me best."

Brock chuckles; "And I always will too. C'mon, time to get dressed; me and Stevie will drop you at the airport."

Steve thinks yeah, this is what hope feels like.

~*~

\--

**The Sky Somewhere Over New York, Early October**

\--

James looks out of plane window, the city a sea of fading lights twinkling on the horizon like so many stars.

He thinks of his work on quantum entanglement last year, of particles fundamentally entwined on a quantum level, no matter if they are side by side or on the other side of the universe; he thinks of them existing simultaneously together and apart, but always, always, pulled back together again. A timeless dance, set in motion from the moment of creation, that keeps them forever on a course for each other – even when light years apart.

He thinks, maybe this doesn't feel like goodbye. This feels like a hello.

He can't wait for winter. 

 

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> If you are thinking 'what even' right now… Idek man. Like this was supposed to be gratuitous threesome porn, I don't even know what happened. At what point did it grow feelings? I turned my back for like five minutes. I am as surprised as you are tbh. 
> 
> Quantum Entanglement;  
> http://www.jpl.nasa.gov/news/news.php?feature=5210


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